The Fools we Are as Men
by Sullen Siren
Summary: Unlikely paths cross in the desert.  A BuffyAngel crossover.  Spoilers through the end of Season Six Buffy and Season Two Angel.  slash


Title:  The Fools We Are As Men

Author: Sullen Siren

Summary:  An unlikely meeting in an out of the way place.

Rating:  PG-13/R

Disclaimer:  I own nothing, and have nothing worthy of suing over.  Characters belong to Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, etc.  

Note:  Spoilers through the end of Season Six of Buffy, and the end of Season Two Angel.

Feedback:  Yes, please.

The Fools We Are As Men

"Lord, lord, can you hear me?

I am not well.

And I have spent all my time here in the cell of my heart,

an actor not given a part.

So why does the wind go howlin' her name?

Are your angels just children, laughing insane

at the fools we are as men?"

-- Ryan Adams

Thousands of miles, long days spent hidden away in cheap motel rooms that stank of sex, fear, and desperation; he'd come here for her.  He'd watched as the forced greenery of California lawns gave way to the slow browning of desert, and tasted the change in the air as it blew across sand.  He understood sand; it was kin to him in some way.  Old and tired, it had once stood somewhere in another form.  A rock, a mountain, a cave; it could have been anything.  Time and rain and men's hands had chipped away at it until all that remained was the glistening gold kernels of rock that they shook out of their clothes and coughed from their lungs.  

He'd been worn down too, though it had been a woman's hands and tears that had done it, rather than nature.  But they were the same in many ways, she was a force of nature, after all; a kamikaze wind of death and destruction wrapped in a body of sunlight and sadness.  Born of a mythology older than he was, she still somehow managed to remain a creature of the moment; patient and primal all at once, a walking, screaming, broken contradiction.  She won without trying and lost without knowing.    

Bloody hell he hated having the soul of a bad poet.  Well soul was a bad way to put it maybe, but if he got any more maudlin, he was taking a bath in holy water and ending it himself, honestly.  And he meant it this time.  

Miles to go.  How many, he really didn't know.  The directions had been a mite imprecise.  The sun began to peek over the horizon and glare at him, so he stopped.  Didn't matter where he was, so long as they had a bit of darkness to hide in.  It was a hotel tonight, stolid hole of a place that smelled of desperation and uselessness, a crumbling, dark bar serving double-duty as a check in.  Yeah, this would do well enough.

They watched him as he came in, the few there.  Two had passed out after a night of cheap beer and long hours.  They lay face down on dirty wood tables, long since abandoned by their companions, if they ever had any to begin with.  Somehow, they seemed less sad than the ones who were awake.  Those slouched on stools or stood around an ancient pool table, hiding from jobs, women, and life in general.  They glared, flexing biceps and folding threatening arms across barrel chests and beer bellies.  There was a look of uselessness, depression, and confinement in their eyes; the look of men with nothing but time, and no purpose but waiting for the days to pass them by.  He ignored them, plopping down at a stool and lighting a cigarette as he nodded at the bartender.  "Whatever's on tap mate.  And keep 'em steady."  He pushed a folded bill at the man and his surly expression gave way to one of welcome.  

The juke box started another song and he winced at the twang.  He fished for another bill and waved it at the bartender.  "Any chance we can make this quiet time?"  The man nodded and unplugged the ancient machine, waving away the half-hearted protests of his patrons.  

            The quiet settled over him like a balm after the noise of the music and the roar of the bike's engine.  He breathed it in, lips moving from cigarette to glass and back again as minutes ticked quietly by.  

            Men came and went.  He drank, the piss-poor beer not managing to get him decently drunk, or even mildly drunk.  He was hungry and he ached from hours on the road.  He kept track of time in cigarette butts and the rise and fall of the reflected rays of sunlight, waiting for the moment he could leave again.  

            It was late afternoon when the stool next to him was taken.  He studied its occupant from the corner of his eyes.  He didn't seem to fit.  He wore the dirty jeans and flannel shirt like a King dressed in peasant's clothing.  He was young and good looking, and the wallet he opened to pay for his drinks boasted a goodly number of credit cards and an attractive amount of green.  He smelled of sweat and road dust and anger.  He spun suddenly.  "Something I can do for you?"

            Bugger all, he must be drunker than he'd thought to be noticed like that.  So much for vampiric subtlety.  "Depends on what you're offering.  You look like you could afford to buy a bloke a drink."  

            He smirked and eyed the collection of glasses in front of Spike.  "Looks like you've had enough."

            "Not even close."  He raised his hand and caught the bartender's attention again.  "Give me a bottle of something decent.  This one's on junior here."  

            The man looked to the young newcomer for confirmation, turning to retrieve two dusty long neck bottles at his nod.  "So what are you here for?"  He shifted in the stool, turning to face Spike more comfortably.  "You don't look the kind you'd find in a dive like this."

            Spike grinned hollowly.  "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this, eh?  That line was old when I was an infant."  He chuckled and took a swig from the bottle, waiting for the stammering.

            It didn't come.  The kid barely blinked.  "Not what I meant, but fine."

            Spike shrugged.  "Same thing everyone else is.  Going away from something, toward something else.  Wound up here in the meantime, just like you, probably.  Or maybe it's going away from someone, in your case."

            He frowned slightly, but didn't respond.  "What's your name?"

            He finished the beer and signaled for another one.  "Spike."

            A flicker of interest flashed over his face, but he didn't ask.  "Lindsey."

            Spike snorted.  "Good ole' southern boy like you, you'd think you'd have a less girly name."

            Lindsey smiled mockingly.  "We all have our problems."  He studied Spike with a detached intensity Spike found somewhat disturbing.  "So what IS a girl like you doing in a place like this?  Really?"

            Spike shrugged.  "Waiting."

            "For what?"

            He flicked his gaze toward the window and smiled faintly.  "Time."  

            Lindsey shook his head.  He reached for his beer with his left hand – odd that was, since he was right handed Spike was fairly sure.  "Guess you go for the cryptic answer, huh?"

            "Not really.  I'm a plain spoken kind actually.  For example, that shirt makes you look like a drunken Scottish miner."  

            "Scotsmen mine?"

            "Well one did.  Name was Patrick.  Smelled like an outhouse most of the time.  Good bloke though.  Could drink a whale under the table.  They buried him in a shirt like that."  Spike paused and pursed his lips.  "His family didn't go in for the pricey funeral idea, it seems.  Not that I blame them.  Always struck me as off to dress up worm food in fancy togs and cry over the hole you shove them in.  Bit barbaric if you ask me."

            The boy tipped his bottle over on the bar with calloused hands.  The hands didn't fit him either.  He should have soft hands.  The hands matched the outfit, not the man.  Or at least one did.  Spike studied the right for a split second, noting the lack of calluses, the different texture of the skin.  "Can't say I disagree.  I always liked the ones who sent their dead off to sea.  Norwegians maybe.  Burnt the body and sent it into the waves.  Nothing left but dust that disintegrates in the water."  He didn't look at Spike as he spoke, turning the bottle in slow circles on the bar and watching it with careful, careful eyes.  "You?"

            Spike smiled faintly.  "I suppose dust sounds about right."  He eyed Lindsey for a long moment, blue eyes amused.  "So what do you do?  You've money enough – even if you don't try to look it.  Let me guess, you're a farmboy, all grown up to be his mama's dreams.  Not a doctor – too smart for that.  Lawyer?"

            Lindsey frowned.  "What tipped you off?"

            "You've the look of one who knows how to lie.  Plus I saw the cards when you opened your wallet."  Spike finished his beer and laid it on the bar, sighing as the boy signaled for two more.  Least he was useful.  "So what's around here to defend, besides drunken bikers and husbands that got a might rough with their wives?"  He winced a bit and looked away.

            Lindsey didn't notice.  "Going home.  I . . . left my old firm a while back.  We had some policy disagreements.  Been wandering about since then – figured it was time I went back to pay my dues."

            Spike shrugged away too-sharp memories of girls in pain on cold bathroom floors.  "So back to nature then?  Can't say that would have been my call.  Always been a big city chap, really.  Better food, better woman, better ways to be bad.  Least if you know where to find 'em."

            Lindsey watched him, and Spike hesitated, suddenly suspecting that this particular boy may be much, much smarter than he was.  It wasn't a pleasant thought; he didn't like playing second fiddle to anyone.  They both fell silent, nursing beer after beer as the quiet stretched thin and fragile between them.  When Lindsey spoke again, it was so sudden Spike nearly jumped.  "So if you're a big city guy, what are you doing here?"

            "Bit of a one track mind, don't you?"  Spike shrugged.  "Got people to see, way down south.  Place I was staying, there was lots of things going on.  Stuff I wasn't involved in.  Seemed a good time to go.  Before the world tried to off itself again, you know?"  

            "It doesn't usually try to 'off' itself.  People usually have a helping hand in it."

            The vampire snapped his head around, reassessing the young man.  "That so?  Toxic waste in the water, superheating ozone and all, you mean?  You one of those high rent hippy types?  Saving the world on Saturdays, when there's no money to be made at the office?"

            Lindsey chuckled, low and rueful.  "No, not even close.  I'm not much for heroics.  I drink from Styrofoam and steal cabs from old ladies."

            Spike chuckled, a faint hint of unease in the sound.  "My kind of man then."

            Lindsey nodded.  "Way I see it, there's evil all over the world.  What most people do, it doesn't add up to much.  Some people do more maybe, but most . . . for most of us there's no point in working at being good, you know?  Things that are gonna happen are gonna happen, no matter what.  Might as well enjoy your life."  He stared down at his right hand for a moment, then slugged back the rest of his beer.  The southern drawl had crept into his voice, making it slower and rougher.  Spike wondered how long Lindsey had worked to control that accent.

            Spike nodded in quiet assent.  "Can't say I disagree."  He couldn't say he agreed either, but he wasn't going to mention that.  "So what is it then?  Woman didn't want you?"  

            The boy smiled the closed-off grin of a bitter man who knew secrets he would never tell.  "Well, that started it."

            Spike nodded, suddenly full of faux sympathy and not entirely sure why.  "Tell me about it?"

            Lindsey glanced at him, eyes glittering with amusement, well aware that Spike didn't care.  He played along though.  Spike wondered whether he needed to talk about it so badly, or whether he was just bored.  "She was . . . special.  Woman like that is half miracle, half monster.  Beautiful, but not as much so as she seemed.  Half of it was what she was.  She used men, and made 'em enjoy it.  Me too."

            Spike shrugged, interest – if there had been any to begin with – fading.  "Hardly an original story mate.  Girl's one of a million, I'm betting."

            Lindsey grinned, a sly look crossing his face.  Spike tried to place it, find a reason for it, but couldn't.  "Nah.  Darla was special alright."  The country accent had slipped back in and thickened.

            Spike scowled.  "Knew a Darla once.  Cold breed of bitch those are.  Even for . . . you're probably better off.  She'd eat you alive.  And not in the good way, mate."  He reflected a moment, memories flicking through his mind.  "One I knew was beautiful too.  Restless.  My girl was different.  She cared.  She was crazy, but she cared.  Darla didn't care about anything except keeping herself interested and entertained.  Was good at covering it up though.  No one could play sweet so well as her."  

            Lindsey nodded, that irritating, knowing, expression still on his face.  Spike half wanted to smack it off, but refrained.  The boy was buying, after all.  Lindsey looked down, swirling the last of his bottle and gesturing for another.  "Yeah.  Sounds familiar.  I wanted her though.  Or I thought I did.  She knew better."

Lindsey's smug expression had tried his last nerve, and Spike had stopped listening.  He grunted a vague response, not caring what the boy had said.  He drained his own beer and looked up.  The rays of sunlight had slid away, leaving only the dim, flickering illumination of the bar's badly wired lighting.  He plunked the bottled down with a satisfying thump, watching as the eyes – different than the eyes that had watched him when he came in, for the most part – turned to him again.  The expression they wore had changed as well.  There was a note of fear in them, the instinctive wariness of prey in the presence of a predator.  He smiled faintly, gratified by the expression.  "It's been . . . well not fun but not as dull as it might have been, mate.  Good luck at home.  Hope you don't wither and die from boredom."  He smirked.  "'Cause you're about as much a farm boy as I am, and that isn't much."  He lit a cigarette and turned to leave.

            A hand shot out and caught his arm.  He stopped and raised his eyebrows.  Lindsey's right hand curled about his bare wrist, the un-calloused skin warm and smooth against his own.  "Don't."

            He pulled his wrist away.  "I'm touched that parting is such sweet sorrow, but I-"

            "I'll get a room."  It was abrupt and tense, and Lindsey didn't look at him as he spoke.

            Spike blinked and smiled.  "Sorry, boy.  Not interested."

            Lindsey smirked, but nodded harshly.  He raised his hand and the bartender came back, obviously pretending he hadn't overheard.  "I'll take a room for the night, please."  

            Spike left as the man handed over a key; noting with no small irritation that the expressions of fear had been replaced with mockery on more than a few faces.  He deliberately caught the eye of a big fellow near the pool table and stared.  It was a trick he'd learned from Dru, years ago.  With Dru, it could hypnotize.  For him, it was just a look, but it worked most of the time.  The man turned away a moment later, the mockery erased and Spike nodded in satisfaction as he pushed his way out of the dilapidated door.  "That's what I thought."

            The bike didn't catch the first time, nor the second.  From the corner of his eye, he saw Lindsey making his way to a room on the far end, a six-pack clutched in one hand.  The third time it started, roaring into noisy life as an errant strand of wind blew stinging sand into his eyes.  He turned it off, slipping the keys into his pocket and walking away, the taste of rocky sand grinding along his tongue.

            The door was open and the young man just stood there, watching him.  There wasn't urgency in him, just a strange certainty and patience.  Again, Spike was very certain that Lindsey was far smarter than he was.  That knowledge rankled, biting along his nerves like a tiny, insistent gnat.  He shrugged it off and leaned against the door as he kicked it shut behind him.  They didn't speak, just stared at one another for a long moment, the closed door making the grimy room dark and shadowed with the faint traces of leftover daylight that sifted through the cracked and dirty glass of a single small window.  The tricky light made Lindsey's high cheeks gaunt, his skin sallow, his eyes dull.  In the fading light he looked old, worn, and tired; but it didn't matter.  

            Spike made the first move, knowing it was expected – maybe even desired.  They crushed together with no hint of tenderness, all hot seeking lips and shifting of sinew and muscle.  Hipbones and hardness jammed together in a strange mix of pain and pleasure as layers of clothes peeled away without words or pause.  The lips beneath Spike's were full and soft and that wasn't what he wanted.  He knew softness, remembered it too well.  He wanted hard planes of muscle and tearing hands.  Scent of sweat and dirt, not vanilla and fruit-laden shampoos.

            He leaned down, lips wandering down to a neck that turned to meet him, offering freely as the blood pulsed just beneath the skin.  It was a familiar gesture, its significance not lost on the vampire.  He nipped without teeth and lapped without blood, reveling in the soft, male sounds of pleasure because she'd been silent so often; because they doused the memory.

            His mind shied away to focus on wandering hands and cumbersome clothes.  The boy's strange quiet was gone now.  Urgency was in Lindsey's every move, every sound.  Each inch of revealed skin bringing a heated touch that lingered and clutched.  There was nothing gentle in his touch, or in the contact he sought in return.  

            He felt strangely detached from the writhing, panting human.  Touching by instincts long left unused – indulgences of this type had always been a rarity for him, a pleasure rarely craved or missed - he taunted and teased with a cold indifference.  It became a challenge, to elicit a gasp, a whimper, a whisper.  He remembered a time long before, when he'd been bent and gasping while another stood over him, swimming in pleasure and tinged with the shame that came with such first times, even to his kind.  That memory too he pushed away.  But they were crowding in now, pushing to be noticed and acknowledged.

            He shut them all down and lost himself in the sensation, letting his indifference melt as his mouth sank lower and the body beneath him gasped.  There was no thought anymore, and he reveled in the mindlessness of it.  There was nothing but tangled bodies and beading sweat, arching backs and white-hot mouths, strangely mismatched hands that pressed tubes of slick substances at him before they fisted around tangled, worn blankets.  A distant hint of amusement – a stray thought that wondered if Lindsey always carried such tubes, or had gone to his dilapidated truck to get it – flickered through, but was quickly lost.    

            It was over in moments, the boy bent and shuddering beneath him as they each cried out in release, neither of the names they called belonging to them.  Spike lay there for a long moment, heavy and languid, then pulled away.

            He sat back and watched as Lindsey sat up, eyes downcast and staring at the floor, already reaching for the half-empty box of Kleenex beside the bed.  There was shame in his face that had nothing to do with the rutting he'd participated in.  The silence between them was deafening.  When Spike broke it, he did so with deliberate harshness, blonde head thrown back to laugh raucously and wildly.

            Lindsey scowled and looked at him.  "You'll wake someone up."

            "It's barely night, and if someone slept through the racket you made, a little laugh's not gonna wake 'em."  Spike shook his head and chuckled again, the soft sound rebounding into deep guffaws of laughter tinged with a deep irony.

            "What is so funny?"  

            Spike wiped a tear with a theatrical gesture.  "I am.  My life is.  Everywhere I go.  Every BLOODY thing I do.  Everything I have, he's had first.  You know that?  Everyone I've ever wanted, they wanted him first.  Even random by-blows in god-forsaken parts of the world, he's there.  If that's not irony, or karma, or some other bloody hippy notion of cosmic justice, I don't know what is."

            Full lips tightened and turned white.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

            He shook his head.  "Gave yourself away, mate.  Might want to work on that."  He studied the boy.  "You knew what I was?  Who I was."

            Lindsey shrugged, struggling to find the dignity he'd had earlier.  "Not at first.  And you weren't exactly circumspect you know."

            "Never claimed I was.  So, soon as you heard my name?"  Spike shook his head.  "Let me guess . . . you were one of Wolfram & Hart's boys?  Had you a run in with the Soulmeister himself?"

            Lindsey smirked, a world of bitterness in his face.  "You could say that."  He reached for a can and looked away.

            Spike watched him drink for a moment.  "Bad way to drown your sorrows."

            A flash of amusement.  "Didn't seem to be bothering you earlier."

            "Vampiric constitution and all.  Not likely to wind up with liver damage, or the like."

            "Nice to know you care."

            "I don't.  More for me is all."

            "Ah.  The important things in life."  

            Spike smirked.  "So what did it then?  The bulging forehead?  The constant senseless brooding?  The penetrating and vacant stare?  The swishy leather coat – stole that look from me he did, by the way."

            "I'm sure you set the standard for vamps everywhere."

            "Don't forget it."

            "Close personal friend of Anne Rice then, are you?"

            "Sod off."  

            "I take that to be a no?"  Lindsey tightened his hand.  "He took things from me.  Everything from me, in the end.  I hated him.  I still hate him.  I don't know if I want him, or just want to be close.  He's so damn sure of himself.  So much the fighter.  I was good – better than good.  I was successful.  I'd be in a high rise palace now, if it wasn't for him and his morals."  He picked up a full can and flung it against the wall in a fit of temper.  It clunked uselessly and rolled to the floor.  "I wouldn't have thought enough to care if it hadn't been for him."

            Spike snorted.  "Spare me.  You two got all manly and violent and now you want in his pants.  The melodrama you can keep to yourself.  In fact, keep it all to yourself.  Figured you'd work out the urge with a different vampire, eh?  Did it work?"

            "Fuck you."  

            "Sorry luv, I prefer to top these days."

            Lindsey's eyes flickered over him, brimming with anger and a sly knowledge.  He shifted the topic abruptly, with no hint of the subtlety Spike knew he must be capable of.  "Vampire in love with a slayer?  Hasn't that been done?  Don't get me wrong, I've seen her file.  I can see it.  Sure you weren't a bit more keen on Darla, actually?  Seems as if she'd be your type; blonde, super strength, smart mouth, attracted to Angel . . ."

            "You don't know the start of it, boy.  The Slayer and I were enemies, then we were allies, then we were– "  Spike stopped and took the young man in for a long moment, Lindsey's still quick breathing the only sound.  "Actually, maybe you know better than most.  Not that we're the same.  You're, obviously, a tasteless twit."

            "I heard she died.  That why you're here?"

            Spike grimaced.  "No."

            "She didn't die?"

            "No.  She did."

            Lindsey frowned and shrugged.  "None of my business, I guess.  Might want to keep an eye on her though.  The boys back home had a lot of files on her – lot of 'em hadn't happened yet."  

            He shrugged.  "She can handle it.  She can handle anything."

            Lindsey laughed, slow and unutterably southern and male.  "I doubt that.  She died, after all."

            Spike lifted him by the throat and pushed him hard against the headboard, a coy and dangerous smile on his face.  "Let's move to another topic, shall we?"

            Lindsey looked at him, face turning red from lack of air.  There was no fear in his eyes, only a strangely interested apathy; a walking contradiction was young Lindsey.  Spike let him go with a disgusted curse.  "Go home, Lindsey.  Go back.  Shag him or kill him – running doesn't suit you.  Coward's way out."

            "It's alright for you, though?"

            Spike shook his head.  "Not running.  I'm going to get her something.  She's cold, unfeeling, and a tease without knowing it.  She's a bitch and half and has seen things that make the world look small and insignificant.  But I'm going to make it right.  I'm going to give her what she deserves.  I'm a bastard, a coward, and a fool, but I can do this."  He grinned suddenly.  "I'm going to give the bitch what she deserves."

            "Charming sentiments, I'm sure."  Lindsey said dryly, rubbing his throat and reaching for his half-finished beer.  "So is this goodbye or an errand for tomorrow night?"  He eyed Spike hungrily, setting his face in an intentional and exaggerated leer.  

            Spike stood, pulling on his clothes with slowly, leisurely movements.  "'Fraid not luv.  Go back and get the real thing if you've a hankerin' for a second go of it."

            Lindsey shrugged, eyes distant and cold.  "Right."  He watched as Spike dressed and left without a goodbye, and then leaned back against the headboard, methodically going through the remaining beers, not bothering to dress.  The fingers of his right hand tapped incessantly against the nightstand until he finally slipped into sleep.


End file.
